


Noorhelm Prompts

by bettertoflee



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Childhood Trauma, F/M, Noora's birthday, self love, self love - not in a dirty way...just good old fashioned self respect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 01:56:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16777321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bettertoflee/pseuds/bettertoflee
Summary: A collection of Noorhelm asks/prompts from Tumblr.





	1. Noora Birthday Drabble

Noora has never enjoyed her birthday. It is one side effect of being born to parents who don’t want a child. Of course, there are other side effects; so many others. Her birthday just happens to be the one that gets thrown in her face on an annual basis. The unaddressed resentment between them also has a tendency to feel more personal on this day. 

William seems to understand this. He celebrates with her in a way no one else would think to, which is to say, he doesn’t. 

At some point over the years she’s lived with them, Eskild and Linn have made a habit of bringing her cake in bed the morning of. This year, William is tucked into Noora’s side when they barge in the door, still half asleep and pushing closer into the sweat of her sleep shirt as he tries to escape Eskild’s body which is quickly encroaching on his space. When Noora shifts her gaze to check on his still dream-addled state, he gives her an understanding look. Something is shared between them, soft and unspoken. An understanding–that she does not really want her roommates attention, that this day is no different than the day before, or the days that have yet to come. That she doesn’t know how to tell them no. 

Of course, she knows _how_ to say no. If there is one thing she’s good at, it would be this. But…she chooses not to. 

Because here’s the thing about birthdays… They’re celebrations of life, and life is shared. When Eskild actively tries to create a moment and center it on someone other than himself and Linn has gotten out of bed before the sun’s had a chance to rise, how can Noora do anything but accept what is so clearly a sign of affection?

Even if it brings up all the muck from her childhood. 

Once they’re gone and the room has returned to its naturally quiet space, Noora buries herself back under the covers where she belongs and William tucks his head into the crook of her neck. He reaches up and trails down the bridge of her nose until his index finger gently falls from the crux and lands softly on her lips. He brings her down further into the bed, if that is even possible, and replaces his finger with his own lips. 

They don’t speak at first. It goes on like that for several minutes; no sound filling the room aside from the rustling of sheets and ebb and flow of the headboard occasionally hitting the wall. They roll from her side into his and back again, a delicate, demure thing. 

They don’t _have_ to speak, but eventually, William does. He angles himself over her, balances on one elbow as he brushes a strand of hair away from where it’s been caught in her eyelashes. He takes his time as he leans back down. Skin touches skin, and Noora. She is alive. 

Life. 

That’s what birthdays are about. 

William’s lips are at her ear and it’s a good thing, because her eyes are closed and she needs him to be this close in order to hear what he’s saying over the rapid beating of her heart. “It wouldn’t be the same without you,” he whispers. 

The rest of the day is spent in a beautiful kind of ethereal bliss. For the first time, Noora thinks she might not mind having a day where she is reminded she exists. 


	2. “I’m sorry, but it’s very hard to focus when you’re dressed like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know what this is to be honest. It’s not really canon. It’s not really *not* canon, either, though. It just...is. 

“I’m sorry, but it’s very hard to focus when you’re dressed like that.”

Noora almost doesn’t hear him over the sound of the faucet running. The words are a whisper, a dare, a promise. She looks up from the sink where she was washing her hands and finds him standing in the doorway. She catches his eye in the mirror and neither of them give. 

She knows she doesn’t look all that different than usual. Collared shirt, slacks, lipstick. It’s obscenely typical, really. Basic. Boring. 

What he’s said should bother her. It should feel disingenuous. It should sound empty. 

It doesn’t.

He steps into the bathroom but he leaves the door open-- _thank god--_ and comes to stand at her side, over her shoulder. Eva’s mom’s robe is behind him now, making a pink halo around his body from where it hangs on the wall. The color suits him. Reflexively, the words go to leave her mouth, but she holds them back. It would sound too much like flirting. 

“Ah, Willhelm.” She is careful to keep her mouth drawn in a tight line once the words have left her lips. It is entirely possible that her will power will crack and the smile she holds back will break through. Every time they interact, it chips away at the wall she’s built. One of these days the wall will crumble and she’ll be done for. 

He steps closer, almost invading her space, but not quite. Noora almost wishes he would.

“William,” he corrects her. There is a trace of a smile on his lips, but he keeps it hidden just as well as she does. 

It is quite possible that this is what keeps them going--this tour de force of wills. 

She reaches out and dries her hands on the towel. They don’t break eye contact, but it is possible that he gets closer, because there’s hardly any space now between his lips and her ear. Her platinum blonde hair is touching her chin and her neck where it wasn’t before. In the mirror or to anyone who might pass by the open door, the situation looks problematic. 

No one takes the time to hold his stare, though, to see what’s actually in his eyes. Not the way Noora does, at any rate. 

It’s an act. She sees it in him because she sees it in herself. It’s a persona of sorts--an instinct born of habit and an animalistic need to survive. It’s the thing that keeps him safe; safe from getting hurt, or too close. It’s what keeps him warm at night and lets him fall asleep without the loneliness creeping in like a vine looking for empty walls to consume. Cold indifference with a side of arrogance is what keeps him alive.   
  
The music from the living room hums around them, a soft melodic tune that sweeps over her shoulders and winds itself through her heart until there is a pool of warmth somewhere she shouldn’t be thinking about. Not when she is close enough to tell that he smells like fabric softener and coffee. She expected...something more harsh, more chemical-ridden.

Noora is brought back to attention, her focus realigning with what is actually in front of her rather than that which is locked away in the deep recesses of her brain. She keeps it there because it’s harder to access, and she’d do well to leave it there, especially when he’s as close as he is. It would be all to easy to drop her guard. But then what?

She clears her throat. 

“I should let you...” She waves her hand absently in front of her, toward the toilet that’s in the reflection. Her eyes grow wide and she juts out her chin, nonverbally indicating that they should both get on with their night. “Eva was waiting for me to help in the kitchen anyway. Sink’s full of pomegranates.”

He leans away from her, only just barely, but it is enough to let a draft of air in between them. The small movement makes her wonder what he was doing so close in the first place. She half expected him to whisper something in her ear, and now that he hasn’t, disappointment coils in her stomach. Maybe it’s something else, but...she locks that thought away too. 

“I think she’s otherwise preoccupied,” he says.

_Chris_. _Of course_.

“You’re supposed to get the crackers and dip while I score the pomegranate.”

Before she knows what’s happening, she’s by the door waiting for him and he’s toweling his own freshly cleansed hands. Noora thinks it might be the first time she’s remained in his presences without him first encouraging her to do so. 

When they’re back in the kitchen, he hands her an apron, appreciating every inch of her as he does so. 

“That’s my favorite--of your shirts.”

She could stick her chin out and tell him he isn’t allowed to favor any article of her clothing. She could refuse to wear the apron and then also, when she returns home, refuse to ever wear the shirt in public again. She could turn around and leave him to do all the work alone. 

But no one is watching, so...

...she doesn’t. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visit me on Tumblr [bettertoflee](http://bettertoflee.tumblr.com/) and please say hi!


End file.
